


Three Times Klink Accidentally Saved a Life (and One Time it was On Purpose)

by YamiTami



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Klink does right occasionally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiTami/pseuds/YamiTami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Klink Accidentally Saved a Life (and One Time it was On Purpose)

The V.I.P. of the day was a big man in manufacturing. He was vague on exactly what he was involved in manufacturing and had given his own name in such a low mumble Klink still had no idea what it was. This was either due to security concerns or because the visitor was a difficult man by nature, but given General Burkhalter’s insistence that the man be given the best treatment Klink was certain that the difficulties he faced in entertaining the man would be worth it. Impressing this man meant a good word in Berlin. This man was important. He was also bored with Stalag 13.

It wasn’t that he disliked it, precisely. As much as Klink talked about the glories of his camp he could, occasionally and privately to himself, admit that it _was_ a bit of a dump. Not that this reflected poorly on him—the other P.O.W. camps he’d visited were far uglier—but there was only so much he could do with the dregs of personnel and the low end of supplies. While the finest of prison camps Stalag 13 was by no means a diamond, Klink knew that, and since he couldn’t take his guest into Hamilburg due to security concerns his options were severely limited. The man didn’t want to listen to the violin nor a record, he didn’t want to inspect the guard, he wasn’t even curious at all about the prisoners. The prisoners were easily the most colorful thing in the camp and usually visitors showed at least a passing interest in them, out of a need to know the enemy or a concern for their welfare or a desire to taunt them or even just out of simple curiosity, but this dull man hadn’t so much as glanced at them. Nothing had interested him in Klink’s quarters, he hadn’t even had the wit to dislike lunch, and ever since the meal was done Klink was on the loveseat and his guest was in the armchair and they were having a lot of fun staring at the wall.

“What time is it?”

Klink fought not to glare at the man; it was the fifth time in an hour he’d been asked that question even though his visitor was plainly wearing a watch. “1:43,” he answered flatly.

“My train leaves at 2:25,” the visitor replied in the same emotionless tone.

Klink waited a stretch before continuing the conversation, caught between wanting to keep the V.I.P. there and getting rid of the exceedingly uninterested and uninteresting individual. “I suppose you should be leaving, then.”

“I need a glass of water to take my medication,” the visitor stated. It wasn’t a question as he got up and barged into Klink’s kitchen without any leave. Seething, Klink followed him and he was just about to deliver a cleverly disguised insult when he walked through the door. The words died in his throat, though, as his visitor wasn’t engaged in getting a glass of water but was instead staring at the pieces of Klink’s antique china collection laid out on the table to be lovingly cleaned.

“Is this...” the man’s voice took a tinge of emotion for the first time in Klink’s acquaintance with him, “Oh, this platter?”

“Yes?”

The visitor’s eyes lit up. “It’s exceedingly rare. How did you come by it?”

Having found a common ground that they were both passionate about—who would have guessed that a mysterious and irritating important man in manuactoring would have such a fire for antique tableware—Klink and his guest chatted about their shared hobby and completely forgot the time. At 2:25 the visitor missed his train. At 2:29, thanks to some work done by the boys in Barracks Two, the train exploded.

~~*~~

Sergeant Clements had been late to roll call, the guard in charge of Barracks 10 reported. He was sweating and out of breath, too. When questioned the other men in the barracks said that Clements was dizzy and feverish. When asked why Clements hadn’t reported to the medical hut the other men said that Clements was an idiot and refused to admit that he was sick.

Klink didn’t believe it for one second.

This Sergeants Clements was last out to roll call because he had to worm his way out of a tunnel, he was sweating and out of breath because of the exertion of digging, any fever was just an elevated temperature caused by exertion, if the dizziness wasn’t a ploy then it was just a result of suddenly going from a dark stifling tunnel to bright daylight and fresh air, and this claim by the other men that he was sick was just their way of covering up the escape attempt. Oh, no, Klink wasn’t fooled by their little scheme, and he decided to call their bluff.

Obviously, Sergeant Wilson couldn’t be trusted to make an honest diagnosis so Klink immediately sent Sergeant Clements and his barracks’ guard out to the hospital. Klink would have to pay for the exam out of camp funds, but he decided it was a small price to pay for putting the prisoners in their place. The prisoner was putting on a show of a pain in his side and claiming it was probably just indigestion but Klink was smarter than that. When Clements insisted that he needed no doctor and that he’d be fine Klink considered his suspicions confirmed. 

His suspicions were slightly less concerned when the hospital called and said that Sergeant Clements’s appendix ruptured shortly after he arrived. The doctor said that they got to it in time and that Clements would make a full recovery, and added that if Klink hadn’t insisted on sending Clements to the hospital against his will then the man would no longer be breathing.

Klink thanked the doctor and then sat back heavy in his chair. So, his instincts were wrong after all. But, he reasoned after a spell of staring at the wall, maybe his instincts were perfect and he just misinterpreted what they were saying. His gut said to send the man to the hospital and that turned out to be exactly where Clements needed to be. 

The mature and civilized commandant of Stalag 13 called the senior P.O.W. officer of Stalag 13 in so he could gloat over having saved the life of one of the prisoner’s lives.

~~*~~

“I understand, _Colonel_ ,” the other colonel said as though it was a personal insult that the two of them were the same rank, “that you had strong words with two of my men last night.”

Klink hunched in on instinct. He should stand up, he really should, since at the moment he was in his desk chair and Colonel Metzger was standing with his hands on the desk looming over him and this really wasn’t a favorable position, but he couldn’t quite convince his legs to do what he wanted them to do.

“Ah, well, ‘strong’ is a rather, well, _strong_ word,” Klink hedged. Anyone watching would know instantly that Colonel Metzger was a combat colonel and Colonel Klink was a desk colonel.

The night before Klink had been minding his own business, taking a leisurely stroll around the block after a lovely dinner at his favorite restaurant. He was musing to himself about the fact that French cuisine was lovely to be sure—the Cockroach had a sneer that could curdle milk but his pastries were _divine_ —and Klink was surely curious about some of the dishes he’d heard the American prisoners talk about, but at the end of the day German cuisine was superior. It might not be as fancy as those delicate French dishes as much art as food, but it was good, sturdy, hearty food fit for peasant and baron alike.

Klink was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the scene until he nearly passed it. A pretty young girl’s path was being blocked by two captains and a major in artillery uniforms. She was saying that she had to go, her mother was waiting for her, and she had a fiancé and he was away and they said then what’s the problem, your mother can wait and your fiancé will never know... the major reached out to cup the girl’s breast and Klink snapped. He might not be so great at taking no for an answer but at least when Klink annoyed women with his advances they were women who could fight back. This girl was seventeen at the oldest, a mere child, and she was clearly terrified. Klink was a coward, true, but there were some things he _had_ to stand for. Besides, he outranked all three of them.

Klink did not outrank their superior officer Colonel Metzger. He didn’t outrank the man striding through the door with a playful tweak of Helga’s pigtail. Klink and Metzger both came to attention and were put at ease.

“What is going on here?” General Burkhalter asked, the jolly smile he wore while looking at Helga quickly dissolving into intense annoyance. Or indigestion. One of the two.

“General Burkhalter, I presume?” Metzger asked, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You would be this man’s superior?”

Burkhalter leveled a glare at Klink. “Unfortunately, yes. What has the dumkoff done now?”

Having found a ranking ally, Metzger stepped forward and explained with glee. “This man had the audacity to lecture three of my men on the street last night! And without any notice or permission from myself.”

“Is that so,” Burkhalter narrowed his eyes and Klink could feel the noose tightening around his neck. The walls were closing in, what was he to do? Unless he turned things around fast he was going to be bound for colder climates, but no one could turn things around that fast. No one but—

“Colonel Metzger,” Klink said in most sarcastically ingratiating tone as he finally rose from his chair and placed his hands on his desk in imitation of Metzger’s earlier pose. “I _apologize_ for lecturing your men without your presence or permission, but at the time I assumed that you would do the same if you had come across the truly disappointing scene.”

“Scene, what scene?” Burkhalter wanted to know. Klink allowed himself a grin; Burkhalter wasn’t won yet but he was still listening.

“The three fine, illustrious members of this man’s command in question were harassing a young girl on the street. I stepped in and put a stop to their deplorable behavior.”

Metzger scoffed. “There was no harm in it.”

Klink pointed at him in jubilant victory. “So! You admit that you know about the harassment?”

“I’d hardly call it that! Some women just can’t take a compliment.”

Klink swooped in for the kill. “Do you know the last time I saw behavior like that? It was the first time the senior P.O.W. officer of this camp met my secretary, Frauline Helga.”

Helga, not having been dismissed, was still standing in the door. All eyes in the room were suddenly on her and she frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, herr commandant?”

“Come now, you remember,” Klink made a complicated go along gesture while Metzger and Burkhalter still had their backs turned, “though I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to remember. He came into the office and immediately started flirting, if it could be called that.”

Helga was looking at Klink like he was crazy and Klink wondered how Hogan made this look so easy. “Yes...” she said slowly. “He surprised me by the filing cabinets and said something about what a nice girl like me was doing in a place like this.”

Don’t smile, Klink thought. Don’t smile DON’T SMILE because she had smiled then and every other time Hogan came into the office, and she seemed to get it because her expression became neutral where it usually would have been fond.

“It was very unpleasant,” she continued in clipped tones. “But Colonel Klink had the guard pull him back and Hogan knows to leave me alone now.”

“Helga has the soul of a valkarie!” Klink said with great pride. “She even learned a judo arm-hold move to keep him away from my office when I am working.”

“I’m only doing my duty to the Fatherland,” Helga said with a shrug.

“Klink...” Burkhalter started with his hand on his temple, “while this is all very interesting, what has it to do with Metzger’s men?”

“Why, everything! Those three men were just as bad—if not worse—as any of these prisoners here. The French with their passions, well, it might make for some nice paintings but they simply have no control. And the Americans! Little better than animals. These Allied soldiers have no discipline, which is, of course, why we will win the war. Except that officers like this man,” Klink rounded on Metzger for the final blow, “they would allow their men to run free like rutting dogs. Disgraceful!”

Metzger was turning an interesting shade of purple. “Now _see here_ —“

“No,” Burkhalter interrupted, “you see.” He shook his head, “I never thought I’d be saying this, but Klink is right. We cannot have a lack of discipline and loose morals in our troops. Incidents like this could damage morale and trust in the population—and right here in Germany!”

Metzger spluttered, “She was a grown woman—“

“Seventeen, I’d say, General. If not younger.” Oh, Klink was having a good time now. “Such a scared slip of a thing. And she kept saying she had a fiancé and the Colonel’s men still wouldn’t let her continue on her way.”

“Klink?”

“Yes, Herr General?”

“Stop gloating.”

“Yes, Herr General.”

No one in that room would ever know it, but the girl was in more danger than the potential harm to her person and virtue. If the major had continued running his hand down her front then he would have surely felt the bumps of the wires and transistors sewn into the lining of her dress. She was a member of the Underground acting as courier for radio parts and other contraband, and the Gestapo unit she would have been sent to was fond of ‘accidentally’ killing prisoners during interrogation.

~~*~~

Something about Major Mannerheim set Klink’s teeth on edge. The Major had just taken leave in Paris and was heading back to his assignment. The Major said that he was stationed in a prison camp as well, but his was different and would the commandant allow him a tour and perhaps lunch? Klink had seen it a million times, the upstart kid was somebody’s nephew. Used to not having to pay for anything, which is why he was wringing a free lunch out of Klink. Normally Klink wouldn’t have minded and would have in fact gone all out completely willingly, but recently he’d come to realize that he really was better off as a colonel rather than a general and there just really was something about Mannerheim that set his teeth on _edge_.

Whatever it was, Klink had no desire to spend a moment in the major’s irritating presence but then again Klink couldn’t afford to bring the wrath of the uncle down on his head. So he smiled and he showed Mannerheim around the camp after lunch. It might have been all right except the exercise hour opened while they were still in the compound. Klink explained about the Geneva Convention and how it required they allow the prisoners an hour of physical activity a day and Major Mannerheim continued to scoff at how soft the P.O.W.s had it.

Klink feared that the prisoners would play their usual tricks, jeering and the like, but as Mannerheim radiated bad energy they all seemed to know on instinct to avoid the two of them. Klink was just steering Mannerheim towards his quarters for a sumptuous lunch when one of the prisoners jumped back to catch a baseball and crashed right into Major Mannerheim.

The corporal was a skinny thing barely tall enough for active duty. He was covered in freckles, had fair blond hair, and he always seemed to be smiling even when rations were cut in punishment for some escape attempt or another. Never caused trouble. Klink recognized him.

The December before Hogan had come to Klink asking for ten candles for one of his men who needed them for a holiday tradition. The offer had been for one of the usual gang to help out in exchange for the candles but there had been recent shenanigans and Klink was all out of trust so he told Hogan that the man himself would have to come forward. The kid had shown up at Klink’s quarters, shy in the shadow of the commandant, and helped Shultz put up decorations for a visit by some important people whom Klink wanted to impress. Klink checked in once or twice to make sure the boy didn’t wreck his quarters and quickly enough Shultz fell back to ‘supervising’ while the prisoner did all the work. It worked out all right, though, as the kid was enthusiastic about it. Klink was so pleased by the good work done by someone who didn’t cause trouble that he gave the boy a bit of marmalade on good white bread along with the ten candles. While the kid ate Klink complimented the job he’d done and the boy lit up, saying that his family never had a tree growing up and that it was a lot of fun to string the ornaments and tinsel. Klink was surprised to hear that and said as much, and the kid quickly clarified that they never had a tree as fine as the commandant’s and of course they had a tree. He inhaled the rest of his bread and orange marmalade, took the candles with a hasty salute and made a fast exit.

Klink commented that it was an odd thing. Shultz said that Corporal Rosenberg was just shy. It wasn’t until three days later that Klink realized the connection between the boy’s name, a lack of Christmas tree, and the significance of nine of the ten candles. He hoped that the boy would be discrete about his traditions and resolved to keep the important visitors away from those barracks just in case. Klink wrestled with himself for a day or so, caught between falling in line with the Fuhrer’s ideals and having known so many perfectly pleasant Jews and Gypsies and that homosexual woman who ran his favorite tavern near flight school... in the end he put it out of his mind as he always did. If he didn’t think about it too hard then he didn’t have to admit that he wasn’t happy with the shape his beloved Germany was taking.

“So,” Major Mannerheim said in his passable English as he stepped forward to tower over the boy. While Hogan’s barracks was always the worst about it, all of the prisoners tended to jeer at visiting brass. It was to be expected, Klink always told them, saying that though they are beaten and tamed there’s always a tiny spark of defiance that remains. But none of the men bearing witness said anything. They were all frozen, none so still as Corporal Rosenberg. Even the nearby guards were holding their breath, one even tightening his grip on his rifle as though he thought he might need use of it.

“So,” the major repeated, fitting a terrible amount of malice into a single small word, “who do you believe you are to be, to attack an officer of the glorious Third Reich?”

Like a rope breaking Corporal Rosenberg snapped into a salute. Major Mannerheim laughed. The hair on the back of Klink’s neck stood on end at the sound of that laugh.

“I am waiting,” Mannerheim pressed, “for your _name_ , if you are not so stupid to forget it?”

Reasonable request. If a prisoner who Klink didn’t know personally crashed into him then that would be the first thing he’d ask. But the thing was that something about Major Mannerheim put Klink’s teeth on edge.

Maybe it was the cocky way the major held himself. Maybe it was the predatory way he’d been scanning the prisoners since he first got out of his car. Maybe it was the way his eyes lit when he talked about Hitler’s plan to keep the Master Race pure. Maybe it was the way he clearly looked down on Klink and Stalag 13. Maybe it was the way he called his own post a prison camp as though it was code for something else. Maybe it was the casual way he mentioned shooting one of their prisoners in the head as an example to the others.

Maybe it was the way he was grinning at Corporal Rosenberg.

“Corporal Mueller,” Klink barked, grasping at the first name that came to mind. He realized his mistake as he was saying it and corrected himself smooth as fine butter. “No, no, Corporal _Miller_ , pardon me, Major.”

Rosenberg’s attention caught on the incorrect name. “But I’m—“

“ _Did I give you permission to speak?_ ” Klink growled. Usually when he took that kind of tone there’d be titters in the background, but his ears met nothing but silence. “Guard! Take Corporal _Miller_ to the cooler. Bread and water, no privileges, and after I’ve had some time to think of something _appropriate_ to his crime the _real_ punishment will begin.”

Two guards, spurred into unusual swiftness by their commandant’s unusual venom, grabbed each of the corporal’s arms and dragged him off to the cooler. Klink urged Mannerheim to his car and made profuse apologies. He might not have bothered as the Major was pleased, in a snide, twisted way; he’d been looking down on Klink and Stalag 13 before he even made it in the gate and here was proof that his own command was superior. As Major Mannerheim climbed into his car he said that Klink was soft, but then again, he supposed not everyone was cut out for the kind of important work that he was doing. Klink chuckled nervously and agreed, saying that the people who couldn’t do the important work did the work that supported the important work. Mannerheim _graciously_ granted Klink that point.

As soon as Mannerheim drove away Klink retreated to his office. He’d barely had the time to shuck his coat when Hogan blew in the door like an avenging wind. Gone was any trace of the usual cowed, ingratiating, flattering man whom came to Klink’s office to make requests and insult him on the sly. This was a different man, the man who must have commanded the 504th Bomber Wing which caused the Fatherland so much trouble, the man who might have never left. Klink wondered about that, sometimes, after the way Hogan marched in when his old friend Group Captain Roberts had been paraded into camp. On that day Hogan had been thrown for a loop so quickly that he hadn’t the chance to continue building steam and it all crashed into the wall. But on the day of Major Mannerheim’s visit there was no visiting Gestapo with a plan to assassinate Churchill. Klink was on his own and he didn’t much care for his odds.

“Colonel Klink,” Hogan was all military, cap on right an all, “what reason do you have for—“

“Hogan I have no time for your petty complaints,” Klink interrupted as he sat down heavily in his chair. He shuffled papers around without really seeing what was on them. He just couldn’t look Hogan in the eye.

The American wasn’t about to grant his enemy that mercy. Hogan planted his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned down so low that Klink had no choice but to look at him. Hogan’s eyes were cold fire. Klink smothered a gulp.

“One of my men is locked in the cooler, and _without due cause_.” Hogan’s words were as weighted as a lead block dragging Klink under the waves. “I demand that you release him immediately.”

Klink evaded. “I suppose one of your men—“

“Yes, one of my men came and got me,” Hogan sneered, “when you sent Corporal _Miller_ to the cooler for accidentally bumping into some Kraut—“

“Major Mannerheim,” Klink ground out, coaxing every ounce of steel he could into his voice as he slowly rose, “is a fine illustrious soldier of the Third Reich. He maintains a very important post in Warsaw. Corporal Rosenberg had no right crashing into him!”

Klink was pointedly enunciating every word, willing Hogan to catch his meaning. But the meaning Klink was trying to get across... he was trying to tell Hogan that Mannerheim was dangerous. He was trying to tell Hogan that Rosenberg was in danger because of his Jewish name. He was trying to tell Hogan that the rumors of what was going on in Poland bothered him. He was trying to tell Hogan that he couldn’t stand what his beloved Germany had become—

“He’ll serve the rest of the day,” Klink answered, deflating. “Dismissed.”

“Colonel—“

“ _Dismissed_.”

Klink sat down and returned his attention to his papers. Hogan remained where he was, unmoving and silent for a long time.

At last, he spoke. “Rosenberg, huh?”

Klink forced his gaze up. Hogan was looking at him with far too much understanding for Klink’s proud heart. He looked away.

“Thank you, Commandant.”

Without another word, Hogan straightened, saluted to military perfection, and left the room. Klink buried his face in his hands.


End file.
